


A Work of Art

by padmefuckingamidala



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eric and Larissa are friends, Eric just wants to flirt through his pasta making abilities, F/M, Homophobia, Jack just wants cute dog paintings, Larissa just wants to paint people, M/M, Multi, NHL Player Jack Zimmermann, a little bit of internalized homophobia, and she bribes people with money, background zimbits, money issues, so I guess Bitty is basically a sugar baby, sugar momma Larissa, very background Holsom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-09-14 09:27:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9173593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padmefuckingamidala/pseuds/padmefuckingamidala
Summary: Larissa Duan, a very successful artist, loves to paint people. Simple as that. And she's more than willing to over-pay people to make them pose.Or, Eric Bittle and Shitty Knight are both basically sugar babies.





	1. New Paints and Alfredo Pasta

**Author's Note:**

> I don't intend on this being very long chapter-wise, but it'll be semi-decent, I hope.
> 
> Comments are appreciated! Complaints are also appreciated, I guess.

Eric Bittle was easy to please. He lived in a little apartment that wasn’t worth shit, paid far too much on bills, and had to give up his dream of baking. He didn’t have time or money to do it. So, it was fair to say any time someone offered any sort of attention or help, Eric was pleased to an extent. He didn’t like people offering him too much or spoiling him, and he didn’t like feeling like a sugar baby.

In that town, everyone knew Larissa Duan. She was a painter, someone who painted a dress so beautiful that Beyoncé had a team of seamstresses make it for her, someone that painted a picture of a pug in hockey gear that was too darn cute that NHL player Jack Zimmermann (aka her neighbor) bought it off of her at an astounding price, and someone that happened to paint so damn much that she had money to burn.

She ran into Eric at a coffee shop. He was trying to buy a damn latte but his credit card was getting rejected. Flustered and embarrassed, he apologized and headed straight for the door. Larissa watched him, his timid walk and his doe eyes struck her. He was beautiful, someone with such beautiful proportions and a godly look, someone that would have been perfect to paint. She reached out and grabbed him by the arm as he tried rushing past.

“Hey, come stand in line with me, I’ll buy you that latte,” she said.

“That’s okay,” he mumbled. His face was red and tears were in his eyes. “Thank you, ma’am--”

“Please,” she said. “I would love to talk to you. We can go somewhere else, how about lunch? We can go anywhere you want for lunch.”

“I don’t have the m--”

Larissa rolled her eyes and linked their arms. “I know, but I do. So there’s nothing to worry about. You are gorgeous, how does such a beautiful person like you wind up in Providence?”

He blushed. “I appreciate it, ma’am, but I’m gay.”

“I don’t want to date you, I want to paint you,” she clarified. “Oh, just look at you! Here’s the deal, you let me dress you up and paint you--”

He shook his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry, I’m still trying to find a decent job. I can't afford to take time off to be in a painting.”

“I’ll pay you,” she practically begged. This blond boy would have given her so much money, so much fame, she felt it in her bones. “Name your price.”

He sighed. “Okay, listen, I don’t see why you want to paint me. I’m not worth a damn cent.”

“And I think you’re fucking gorgeous.” Larissa pulled him out of the coffee shop, their arms still linked. “Name your price.”

“Pay my student loans and I’ll quit one of my jobs to make time for your paintings.”

Larissa knew he was being sarcastic, but when you’re a multi-millionaire with a desperation for a cute blond subject, she was willing to do just about anything. “Done. I will literally do anything. I’ll hire a person chef and move you in, I will shave my head if you want me to. I’ll buy you Beyoncé tickets, I’ll do whatever.” She’d noticed his Beyoncé shirt, which he’d covered with his jacket at her remark.

“I really have to get to work,” he said. “I’d give you my phone number, but it’ll probably get shut off in a few days. I’ll see you around.”

He pulled away just as Larissa grabbed his other arm. “Wait! What’s your name?”

“Eric Bittle.”

“And what school did you go to?”

He rolled his eyes. “Samwell University. Pay those loans and I’ll meet you for lunch. Hell, I’ll let you dress me up and paint me. Maybe if you let me use your kitchen, I’ll make you a damn pie and let you paint me forever.”

Eric knew she wouldn’t do any of that. How would some girl in jeans that were just as ratty as his have enough for loans, pies, and Beyoncé tickets. Ha!

He checked his account later that morning. It was all through Sallie Mae, which he didn’t even mention to her, and sure enough, all of his loans were paid off. Every damn cent. All of it was paid in full, the entire one hundred thousand of fucking loans.

He shuffled out to his awful kitchen to see the small girl from yesterday sitting on the counter. “Oh, good morning, Eric!”

“How did you--”

“Your landlord let me in after I slid him a nice fifty,” she said, pausing to take a sip of her coffee. “I can get you a better apartment.”

“Why on earth are you this desperate to paint me?”

She held out a hand. “Larissa Duan, multi-millionaire and a painter. I have a guest room. Really nice apartment.”

Eric’s face was red. “I don’t understand why I’m worth painting. I’m just a dumb little gay boy.”

Larissa shook her head. “You look amazing. I didn’t know what you needed for the pie, so I figured we’d go shopping and you can get what you need. I have a full kitchen. I bought a kitchenaid mixer, I think those are good.”

She watched as he rested his head in his hands and let his shoulders shake. “I don't have anything to offer you back,” he cried. “I have nothing. I don’t even have a damn rat trap to put in this dump.” And he cried in front of the rich painter that just wanted to paint him.

Larissa gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Look, you sitting still for hours is enough of a payment. Think of it as you being a sugar baby. I paid off your loans, and in return, you let me paint you.”

The words sugar baby made his blood run cold. His skin was crawling at this point; this wasn’t just a five dollar bill and a compliment--Eric was drowning in bribes and treats and he didn’t know if she was mocking him or not. “I just don’t understand why me,” he sobbed. “I’m not even that good looking. I’m a mess.”

“I know what it’s like to be broke. I was there before I made it big.” She crossed her legs. “Your landlord told me you’re working three jobs, so let me make it easier for you.”

It was creepy. It was really creepy for her to pursue like this, but she wasn’t thinking. All she could do was shower Eric in money and pie ingredients, and in return, Eric made pies and posed in whatever way she wanted. She reached over and wiped his tears with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Hey, it’s okay, dude. Let’s go out for lunch and talk about it. I’ll pay. You have to be stressed, I think one day wouldn’t kill you.”

Three years later she came back to her apartment (after a lovely conversation with Jack Zimmermann, who asked her if she had anymore hockey dog paintings and asked about “how’s that little baker of yours?”) to the smell of an amazing dinner. She recognized the smell of garlic knots right away.

“Eric, you’re a fucking saint,” she called out.

“Just wait until I pull the chicken alfredo out of the oven,” he replied. “You’re back a little late. Anything fun happen?”

She shrugged. “Not really. Your hockey boyfriend just talked to me.”

Eric blushed, but still shot her a dirty look. “I’ll have you know that he is not my boyfriend.” He turned to grab his oven mitts, barely pausing before asking, “did he say anything about me?”

Check and mate. “Well, he asked how you were. I just don’t see why you can’t gather the courage to ask him out.” Larissa set her bag on the empty counter space--which was not much--and sorted through her new paints. “I think I want to take you shopping. I got new paints, so you need to find something cute in these colors.” She set them in front of her and looked at him. “Eric! You’re not even looking! What kind of sugar baby are you?”

Eric found that amusing. “The kind that doesn’t want the alfredo to burn, Miss Duan. Oh--that teal with salmon? What were you thinking?”

“You can buy salmon shorts like your college buddy,” Larissa teased. “And you’ll do what I say, because I can easily have a nice talk with Mr. Nice-Ass-Hockey-Man for you.”

He pulled the pan from the oven and set it on the cooling stand. “If you find me a cute boy to kiss, I have an idea.”

Larissa shot him a dirty look, as if her painting skills had been personally offended. “If you’re going to put paint on your hands and paint on the other boy’s hands and have me paint the colors you smear on each other, I am going to scream.”

“But I think with the lighting, it would look cool,” Eric whined. “I bet Mr. Zimmermann would make a perfect art subject for that.”

“His eyes are very nice,” she mused. “Is that your plan to woo him? It’s a terrible plan.”

He frowned at her, but there was no way out of this one. He slipped off his oven mitts. “If I’m being honest, I only made this for dinner because I was going to invite him but I chickened out. The paint was plan B.”

His frown deepened when she laughed at him. “Oh my GOD, Eric! You are so helpless.” Her hands moved quick to shove the paint back in her bag and set it on the floor. “I’m going to invite him over.”

“Don’t you dare!” Eric grabbed her arm. “Riz, you cannot invite him over. What if he doesn’t like it? I’d be embarrassed.”

“He’ll like it! It’ll be great!” She pulled her arm away from him and started to smooth Eric’s hair. “Just talk about hockey, okay? You love hockey! Woo him with that southern charm of yours--”

“What southern charm?” Eric groaned. “I’m not as charming as you believe me to be, Riz. What if he’s not even gay? He’s probably just being polite.”

Larissa made her way to the door. “He asks about you all the time! Trust me--”

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t!”

Larissa shrugged and swung the door open. Standing there was Jack Zimmermann, his hand raised as if he was about to knock on the door. And in that moment, Eric Bittle wanted to die.

///

If Shitty had to listen to Chad go on another “All Lives Matter” tangent, he was going to fucking kill him. He’d listened to this douche bag go off into horrible, sexist, homophobic, and completely racist rants, and Shitty couldn’t take it anymore. Between that, the long hours put into work, and the support of zero friends (he’s too busy for texts), he’s done. He’s exhausted, he’s so close to digging his own grave, and he’s ready to sleep for a month.

He would text Jack sometimes. It was crazy how his best friend was Jack Zimmermann, the Jack Zimmermann. Somehow, Jack’s mom knew Shitty’s parents, and there it was. Friendship. Shitty was annoying, loud, and he talked enough for the both of him. Jack didn’t mind at all. He liked listening, and he liked that Shitty would always listen when Jack spoke. Easy friendship there. And, luckily enough, it stuck. Jack went one way, Shitty went another, they were pretty close yet so goddamn far apart, but cell phones were a thing and that was good enough for them

To Jack: If I have to listen to this penis wrinkle open his fucking mouth again I’m jumping off a bridge.

From Jack: Don’t jump off of a bridge.

To Jack: Well he started talking so I’m gonna find a bridge. It’s been real. Stay beautiful, you glorious bastard.

From Jack: Shitty you are not jumping off of a bridge.

To Jack: Maybe I should just start yodeling to show him how much I hate his goddamn voice. It’s either yodeling or jumping. Take your pick.

From Jack: Those are both pretty bad options. 

To Jack: Excuse me? If I yodel then I can’t hear him. If I jump off the bridge, then I won’t hear him either. I’m sure death is better than this fuckboy.

To Jack: FUCK HE’S SUCH AN ASSHOLE. I’M FINDING A DAMN BRIDGE.

And that’s when Jack Zimmermann, the beaut of a man and a god with cheekbones that could cut a man, was waiting outside of his room for him. It was late, and at that point, Shitty was tired as hell, but you’re never too tired to pounce at your best friend.

“Jesus Christ!” Shitty looked at him and smiled so hard his face hurt. He wasn’t used to smiling anymore. “I can’t believe you’re actually here, dude! Aren’t you busy with your super famous hockey life?”

Jack laughed. “There’s always time in my life to kidnap friends so they don’t jump off of bridges.”

“Kidnapping?” Shitty opened his door and let the both of them in, but he ignored the bridge part He probably wouldn’t even sort of kind of consider possibly jumping of a bridge hypothetically... Ha, no way… Not a chance… Everything was sort of kind of in a way decent. 

Well, almost. Shitty was pushing his limits. His parents weren’t really close to him and since he was too exhausted after classes to actually work, they were his only source of money. They paid for his classes, books, food, that kind of shit. But he wasn’t given spending money. He had exactly enough for shitty take out and supplies, there was no room for fun or relaxation. 

He’d considered getting a sugar daddy, but he didn’t think he could handle that. He wasn’t as comfortable with guys as he was with girls. Maybe he needed a sugar momma, but how the hell did people get those? Shitty didn’t want some random stranger, he wanted a decent human being that knew his schedule, had his way with him during the weekend, and gave him money. That was easy. Maybe? He hadn’t figured out any of the kinks but he was bound to find someone that would pay him for doing basically nothing.

“You aren’t here to visit?”

Jack shrugged, looking around the room. It was a mess, but Jack didn’t say anything about that. “I just figured you’d like a change of scenery. We can order a pizza, I could stop off and get some beer. You know…” Jack didn’t say it, but he didn’t need to. He missed Shitty. After a while of not hearing from someone you were really close to, the world gets lonelier.

Shitty moved quickly to pack a bag. “Alright, Zimmermann, but no way in hell I’m eating anymore pizza. I’m sick of that shit. You better make me a nice meal.”

“You know I can’t cook,” Jack said, and he was right. Jack burned water trying to boil it for pasta, and it didn’t work out. He couldn’t open cans without making a mess, and he really didn’t know how to make anything other than protein shakes. But Shitty was determined to eat something good that didn’t make him want to cry with every damn bite.

And that was how Jack Zimmermann ended up outside Larissa Duan’s door, nervous as hell. She smiled at him, back at Eric (who looked like he was having heart failure right about then) and then back at him. “Hey, Jack! What can I help you with?”

 

“I--uh… I have a friend over and I thought he’d be okay with take out,” Jack explained, trying his hardest not to look up at Eric too much. “I really, well, suck at cooking. I was wondering if Eric had any easy recipes--”

“Actually,” Larissa said loudly, right before Eric could say a damn thing, “Eric made enough for two more. You’re welcome to join.”

Eric scrambled to grab plates, trying his hardest not to look up at Jack too much. Both boys failed, leaving Jack to trip over his words. “Thanks--that’s uh--it smells great but--I don’t want to be--I eat a lot, being a hockey player and all---and well, Sh--my friend can probably--”

“That’s okay,” Larissa cut him off and leaned against the door frame. “Eric’s pretty used to that. He kept the hockey players fed in college, I’m sure he knows how much they can eat.” She turned her head to call back to him, “Isn’t that right, Eric?”

Eric set the table with a pounding heart. “Y-yes, it is.”

Jack nodded, saying he’d be back with his friend and leaving the two roommates to hash it out.

“Excuse my language, but Riz, what the hell?” Eric hissed. He was redder than a damn tomato, his eyes wide with fear of eating dinner with a cute boy, feeling completely unprepared. “If I was going to have him for dinner, I’d make a pie! You can’t just throw me off like that!”

“It’s not just the two of you,” she reminded. “Look, Eric, there’s going to be me and his friend there, I doubt things will get to the point of needing a pie.” When she saw her words didn’t soothe her friends’ fears, she sighed. “I’ll talk to him about doing the paint thing? The stupid kissing and smearing thing you wanted to do.”

Kissing? Really? Eric deadpanned, “I can’t even handle enjoying a nice alfredo pasta with him do you really think I can kiss him?” He wiped his hands nervously on his apron

Eric had routine he liked to follow. For dinner, he liked to present everything nicely, as if he was in a restaurant, even though he wished to have his own bakery. (It wasn’t something he told Larissa about, because she’d go through and buy him his own bakery without a second thought.) He would give the silverware a little polish, place the food neatly on the plates, put the rest of the dish in the middle of the table along with seasonings, and he knew Larissa liked wine with her dinner, so he went the extra mile to set a small glass of wine and a water cup next to each plate, but this was different. What if Jack Zimmermann didn’t drink wine? What if his friend didn’t either? Or--

“Holy fucking shit, Eric Bittle!”

Eric turned his head from the wine glasses to see Shitty standing next to Jack Zimmermann himself--who was looking a bit embarrassed.

“Shits, tone it down--”

Shits did not, in fact, tone anything down. He made his way over to the baffled baker he went to college with a pulled him into a breath-stopping hug. “I haven’t seen you in forever, bro! It feels like it’s been years! When Jack said we were eating something good tonight, I didn’t think it was going to be yours? Oh my God, please tell me there’s pie.”

Jack let out a sigh. “Put him down, Shitty, you’re probably suffocating him.”

Larissa had to laugh at all of this. “Wait, you know Eric? And your name is Shitty? Or Shits? Which one do you go by?”

Shitty, who was five-ten, pale, had a mustache, was exhausted looking with bags under his eyes and a bit thin, turned to face Larissa. She felt like she was seeing Bitty for the first time; all of a sudden she forgot everything and had the strongest desire to paint. His eyes were a perfect shade of green, his smile looked great, his proportions were something that would be nice to draw out and master, and she wouldn’t stop until she had him on a canvas.

“I, uh, yeah, bro,” Shitty said smoothly. “I’m Shitty, my birth name sucks so there’s no point in going by that monstrosity. And I went to college with this glorious piece of man--” he grabbed Eric by the shoulders and pulled him close to him, causing the smaller man to stagger a bit “--and it was fucking awesome. He kept the hockey team fed, and in exchange, we kicked the ass of any horrible dude that tried getting too close.”

“I defended myself,” Eric countered. “I fed y’all because y’all were my friends!”

Shitty snorted. “What about that time Holster had to be your fake boyfriend because you decided to flirt with a football player a damn foot taller than you? And he turned out to be a dickhead?”

Eric set the closed bottle of wine on the table hastily and pointed a finger at him. “That was one time and you know it! And Holster didn’t even have to, he offered because he was dedicated and just wanted a dang blueberry cobbler!”

“Is Holster the one with the salmon shorts?” Larissa asked.

Before Eric could even open his mouth, Shitty was spitting out words. “Nah, bro, that was Ransom.”

“They share those shorts,” Eric offered.

Jack sighed. “Shitty, you can’t just call everyone your bro. Mind your manners.”

Larissa dismissed it, waving her hand and looking back at Jack. “Eh, doesn’t bother me none.”

The conversation was not nearing it’s end. “Or the time you dated a fucking lacrosse bro and he put something in your drink?” Shitty pointed out.

“I’ll have you know that Ransom set me up with him because they were in a class together and thought he was a decent guy! So you can blame that one on Ransom.”

“That Marc guy that followed you around for a week and asked you for pictures of your feet to jerk off to?”

Eric jabbed his finger at Shitty’s chest. “You’re not getting any garlic knots if you keep running your dang mouth. Go wash your hands and pick a seat before I send you home without a pie.”

Shitty knew he won, patting Eric on the head before pulling out a seat. Larissa watched the way he sat down and waited politely for everyone else to join. She sat between him and Eric, and Jack made his way to the empty seat with a dirty look in Shitty’s direction that went unnoticed.

Larissa was totally gonna paint this dude, even if it killed her.


	2. You Know Darn Well My Middle Name Is Not James

Shitty sighed through a mouthful of garlic knots. “Jesus, Bits, this is fucking beautiful. Harvard is a nightmare. I didn’t think I’d ever eat something this good again.”

“Manners,” Jack reminded, picking up his wine glass yet again. Larissa didn’t think Jack would’ve been the type to drink, being very serious and hockey, hockey, hockey! and all, but she watched him take another sip, falling in love with every drop.

Eric shook his head. “You should know there ain’t no manners when Shitty’s around, Jack. Unless your Shitty is different from the one I went to college with.”

“Does your Shitty wear dangerously short American flag shorts?” Jack asked, looking up from his plate. He was having a hard time not making a pig of himself. Eric’s food was amazing, and it was driving him insane. His dad cooked, of course, but it was never this extravagant.

“Oh, Lord, he wore that to every Kegster.” Eric took a swig of wine. “Those and a god-awful Hilary Duff shirt that he cut the sleeves off of. I think he had a pair of pink converse to go with them.”

After letting out a rather pathetic belch, Shitty pointed a finger. “You have no room to talk, Mr. Bow Tie at Any and Every Formal Event.”

“Bowties are cute,” Eric argued. “Keep picking on me, Shitty, I won’t make you a key lime pie to take back to Harvard. Also, that burp was weak.”

“Oh? And you’re suddenly an expert on perfect burps now?” Shitty asked. “Anytime we burped in the Haus you got all pissy and lectured us. Once you made us go an entire day without pie.

Larissa grabbed another garlic knot from the tray before breaking her silence. “Of course he is. He’s been living with me long enough to know what a good burp sounds like. By the way, it goes something like this.” She let out what was probably the loudest and longest belch that ever came out of a living person. Short, little Larissa sounded as if she was four times her size.

Shitty nearly choked on his own laughter, either from the look on Jack’s face or the actual amazement of Larissa’s burp. “Holy shit, dude, that was fucking incredible! I couldn’t even be a close second, that was glorious.”

“Eric hated it at first,” Larissa admitted. “It was so funny to get him all riled up over a casual burp. Jack, you look a bit shocked. Need to wash it down with more wine?”

“You drank that pretty fast,” Eric commented. “Garlic knots too dry?”

“Not at all,” Jack blurted out. “No--they’re amazing--I, uh--it’s just really good. I haven’t really had wine before, I really liked it.”

“Do you want a bottle to take with you?”

Jack shook his head. “Ah, no, thank you. I’d never finish it.”

“Well,” Eric said, scooping a bit more pasta on to his own plate and doing his hardest not to look Jack in the eye, “it’s not like it’ll go bad in a day. We just drink it with our dinners, sometimes when Larissa has her parents over.”

Shitty held up his plate with a goofy grin on his face, and Bitty scooped a healthy mountain of pasta right on top of it. It was enough pasta to make Jack wonder if even he could finish that off, but knowing Shitty, there would be a third plate and he’d cry about being too full until morning. “Yeah, Jacky-boy, I bet wine would help you unwind after a long day of being absolutely perfect. Maybe if you get lucky, Eric here will make you some pie. He does this one with maple crust, Christ, it’ll warm your Canadian heart.”

“I don’t think it’s that good, Shits--”

“Bullshit,” Larissa interjected. “Your pie is probably the best thing to ever grace this earth.”

The conversation continued on, faltering a bit as Eric pulled a pie from the fridge and handed it over to Shitty. Jack obviously didn’t want to wear out his welcome, but Larissa saw the way Eric looked at him, and she would have kept Jack here forever just to see Eric turn pink. She wanted to paint him that way desperately. He was such a colorful and emotional person that putting him on a canvas just seemed right.

“It’s getting late,” Jack said. “I should probably head back down, I have practice tomorrow.” He stood up, blush spilling across his cheeks as his eyes met Eric’s. “It--uh--it was amazing, Eric. I can’t remember the last time I tasted something that amazing.”

“You could always come back tomorrow,” Larissa offered. “You and Shitty are more than welcome. I’m sure Eric can send Shitty back to Harvard with some grub, you could get a pie or two, ya know, it’s kind of a win-win.”

“Win-win?” Jack raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see what the two of you are getting from this.” He noticed how Eric focused on clearing off the table, not saying a word or looking at anyone. He took the pile of dishes to the sink and turned on the water.

“Eric gets to cook for people and we get the company. Not too bad, I think.” Larissa stuffed her hands in her pockets. “Thank you for joining us. We don’t really get out of our bubbles much.”

“Neither do I,” Jack admitted. “It was wonderful, thank you.”

Shitty didn’t think he would ever be able to walk away from a table happy and stuffed like he was now. “Yeah, well maybe next time you’ll pull your beautiful head out of that glorious ass of yours and do more than just make puppy eyes at Eric.”

“Shitty--”

Larissa shrugged. “Eric’s guilty of it, too. He thinks he’s being slick by making muffin baskets and claiming to be a good neighbor, but the punk doesn’t make muffins for any other neighbor.”

“And the conversation ends here.” Eric was practically pushing Shitty towards the door, rambling at the speed of light and more than eager to push away anything that was just said. He wouldn’t let Shitty say anything else; he was pushed out, Jack was given a short goodbye, and the blushing boys parted ways. Once the door slammed, Eric turned back to Larissa with fire in his eyes. “I’m not letting you paint me for a week. No sketching, no color planning, no outfit shopping, nothing.”

“That’s fair.”

In the morning, Larissa found herself in a bit of an artblock. Colors weren't going together as well as she’d hoped, and Eric was still upset with her, so there was no one to help her gather her creativity. She thought of gathering her pinks and oranges and painting Eric anyways. She could have always bribed him with something, though, that was getting harder to do. She was always giving him things, whether it be actual material items or decent sums of money. Eric was spoiled rotten.

She pondered what she could have given him. Over the past year, she’d given him things like mixers, measuring cups, aprons, Beyonce tickets and, in extreme circumstances, shopping sprees. That was usually when she really fucked up, struck a nerve or did something stupid.

The last time was when she’d called his mom. Larissa wasn’t given the full story on why Eric hadn’t seen his mom as much as he’d like, and she just assumed it was because Eric didn’t have the money to make it to Georgia and back. She snooped around, found Suzanne’s number, and called her up, saying she was friends with Eric and she wanted to plan a surprise trip.

“Dicky knows what he has to do if he wants to come back down,” Suzanne told Larissa and a harsh tone. “Honestly, hiding behind you in order--”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t mean to offend. Eric just talks about you alot and I know he doesn’t have the money to make it, I just wanted to do something nice. I know what it’s like to not see my mom for a while.”

There was a sharp breath on the other line. “Like I said, he knows what he has to do if he wants to see me.”

“I don’t understand,” Larissa admitted. “Was it something I did? He misses you a lot, Mrs. Bittle.”

“He should’ve thought about that before he decided to be a fag.”

Larissa hung up instantly. Her ears burned as she realized what she’d meant, and why Eric wasn’t too keen about the idea of calling his mother. She brought it up to him later over dinner. The look on Eric’s face was enough to make her heart crumble into thousands of pieces. He excused himself from dinner with a blank expression on his face, and made his way to his room, where he stayed for three days.

“I’m sorry,” Larissa told him, finally sliding into bed with him. “I’m so sorry, Eric, I know it was wrong and I should have checked with you, and I know I can’t take it back. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Eric didn’t face her. “I just… anytime I reach out to her, it’s the same thing. She always lashes out again, gets me after the call to chew me out further. I’m tired of hearing about how I tore our family apart by being a fa--”

“Don’t say it,” she pleaded. “I… Eric, you’re my best friend and I would do anything for you. It may not be the family you’re used to, but I’d love to build a family with you.”

“That’s not--”

“Not like that. Families don’t have to be a couple and children and a huge bloodline. We’re a family. We live together and it’s amazing and you’re my best friend.” She waited for him to say something, and when he didn’t, she grabbed his hand. “I know it’s not the same, but I’m here for you.”

Eric didn’t say anything.

Larissa let go of his hand, but made no move to get off the bed. “Please say something. Anything. You can tell me you hate me, or you can--”

“I just don’t understand why I couldn’t have been born straight,” he choked out.

The next day, Eric was given endless gifts. He was taken out for breakfast, taken to a clothing store, taken to a kitchen store, and Larissa even tried to buy him a bakery. He refused, of course, but appreciated the sediment. He insisted the gifting stopped there. Eric put his foot down after the bakery incident, and Larissa complied for about two hours. There were gifts sent through the mail. Beyonce merchandise, cute kitchen decorations, a t-shirt that said “Y’ALL MEANS ALL” in huge, rainbow lettering, and last but not least, a certificate saying he had officially adopted a shark, and its name was Eric James Bittle.

“Okay, first of all,” Eric started, angrily shaking the certificate that was in his hand, “this is ridiculous! These gifts are getting out of hand! And second, you know darn well that my middle name isn’t James!”

Larissa looked up from her canvas and shrugged. “Yes? I mean, of course I know that, but I need a way to distinguish you from your pet shark. We’ll call him James.”

“Gosh darnit, Larissa, stop buying me things! And why a shark? Why did you literally adopt a shark in my name?”

“You don’t like my presents?” she asked. 

Eric sighed. “Look, Rissa, I love everything you get me. But I know they’re guilt presents. And you shouldn’t have to buy me stuff because I’m sad and you feel kinda upset about it.” He set the certificate back on the counter and crossed over to her. “I’m sorry I’ve been sad lately. It’s not fair to you, I’m here for you to paint me and--”

“You’re not just a subject, Eric, you’re my friend. Stop being such a butt. You’re allowed to feel sad. You can feel sad forever if you want. I’m still going to be here, and I’m still going to love you forever, dude. And I was serious about that bakery.”

Eric thought for a moment. “If I get a bakery, that’s less time for you to paint me.”

“Shit.” Larissa ran a hand through her hair, which was nice. The tension from the room was gone and everything moved in its usual manner. “I guess no bakery for you, then.”

He sad next to her and let his head fall on her shoulder. They’d sit like that sometimes, anytime, actually, just because. The reason this time was because they were happy. “Thank you, Rissa.”

“No prob, Bob.”

The last gift consisted of two frames for the Shark adoption certificate and the picture of Eric James Bittle, the friendly shark. The frames hung in the hall, right next to the bathroom doorway. Their loving family was made up of a baker, a painter, and a shark, and it couldn’t get any better.


	3. The Right Kind of Ugly

Larissa woke up loud knocks at the door and a sticky note on her lamp. Of course. The note was from Eric, saying that he was heading down to the little farmer’s market for some berries. With Larissa’s luck, they would be strawberries and she wouldn’t be able to eat anything that would be made. As she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, she felt kind of hurt that Eric didn’t wake her up so she could go with him, but she was probably still mad.

Understandable.

She shuffled into the kitchen in her boxer shorts (which were Eric’s shrunk underwear that were now her sleeping shorts and painting apparel, of course), and a sloppy t-shirt, assuming the frantic knocks at the door would be Eric with full arms and need to rub all the strawberries in her face. The door was pulled open and there stood Shitty, looking rather tired with a laptop in his arms and a heavy backpack slung over one shoulder. “Hey! Is Eric here?”

Larissa shook her head. “Nope. He went out for strawberries.”

He looked very nice, though, with jeans and a red t-shirt that said “Samwell Men’s Hockey” on the front in white, bold letters. His hair looked extremely clean. He was tidy and his hair looked soft to the touch. She wanted to paint him to bad, and she was eager to mix the paint for the browns to paint his hair. Shitty’s face fell at her words, and she remembered that he wasn’t here for her. “Oh, well can--”

“You can come in,” Larissa said with a wave. “Jack’s at practice, no use in you sitting down there by yourself. There’s some pie in the fridge.”

Shitty seemed unsure. Larissa was lingering by the marble island at this point, waiting for him to come in and close the door behind him, but he stayed in the doorway. “I don’t wanna bother you--I mean, a weird bro kinda showing up out of nowhere must be--”

“I’ll pay you one-hundred dollars if you let me paint you.”

One hundred dollars was a lot of money, even for someone with rich parents. Sure, they paid for his school, his meal plans, his phone, and any dorm room necessities, but there was no money for snacks in his dorm, for fun things, for relaxing things, and it hurt him. He knew his parents were keeping him on a leash. Now, bored and lonely and probably depressed, he was offered money. And all he had to do was be painted.

He stepped into the apartment and closed the door with his foot. “Aren’t I a little ugly to be painted?” he asked. “I mean, I’ll do it, bruh, that’s lit, but I’m kinda… ehhhh?” He trailed off in a vague, high-pitched noise that prompted Larissa’s laughter.

“Dude, you’re exactly the right amount of ugly for me to paint.” She pulled a pie pan from the fridge and set it on the counter, then turned on the ball of her foot to pull forks out of the little drawer. “You are very, very, aesthetically pleasing to look at. You’d look great on a painting.”

Shitty set his things on the table and scrambled to the island, plopping down on a stool. “Man, just tell me what you want me to do. I’ll do anything for a hundred at this point.”

Larissa grabbed plates from a cabinet and set them out. Pie for breakfast was fine by her. “Good. Then you’ll be very easy to manipulate. Do you have any hair ties?”

“No?”

“We’ll go shopping, then,” she said quickly. “We’ll eat pie and then roll out.”

“I don’t really have money to shop--”

Larissa shoveled pie into her mouth and grinned, saying with her mouth full, “Well it’s a good thing I’m a multi-millionaire. Are you opposed to ribbons?”

“No.”

“Glitter?”

“No.”

“Dude,” Larissa chimed, “sweet. Okay, so I’ll probably tie your hair up. Can I--”

Shitty cut her off, his fork halfway to his mouth. “You can literally do whatever you want. It’s money, bruh, as long as I can do my school work during this shit then I’ll follow you like a puppy on a leash.”

Larissa’s smile was starting to hurt her cheeks, but it wouldn’t go away. “Do you have any sweaters with the elbow patches?”

“It’s back at Harvard.”

Larissa shoved the rest of her pie in her mouth and put the dish in the sink. “I’m gonna go get dressed! Eat your pie, I’ll be a few minutes.”

She left Eric a note, quickly dressed herself, dry-shampooed her hair, brushed her teeth, and grabbed her purse. By the time she was done, Shitty was putting a rather empty pie dish back into the fridge. “Ready when you are, captain.”

///

Larissa was foolish. She left with a strange man to go shopping, they ended up getting lunch, and they ended up laughing and goofing around. The thing is, she was a big name. Beyonce loved her, Jack Zimmermann talked about her often, and she was often a friend-date when many people walked the red carpet. Hell, she was on Ellen once. She handed Ellen a scribbled mess that featured them sitting on the show, and Ellen loved it. So, by association, she was pretty famous. Artists aren’t usually famous until they’re dead, with few exceptions, but Larissa was an icon. She was good at many types of art, from makeup to fashion, from painting to ceramics. Larissa could do it all. She was adored, and was loved; the paparazzi loved her the most, some days.

Shitty had held up a green sweater with elbow patches, but it was the ugliest shade of green that Larissa had ever seen. “Hey, Riz, I think this one would be grea! Paint me in greens and call the painting--” he struck a pose and swiped his arm in the air, looking off as if he was some chum proposing a scam to a company “--The Booger Man!”

Larissa laughed and held on to his arm. “That would be the worst painting ever.”

“Possibly even the shittiest,” Shitty said, holding the pose.

Larissa gave a snort, trying not to double over. “No! You’re too funny, stop--”

Shitty liked making people laugh. Sometimes, he thought it was the only thing he was good at. 

A camera flashed and Larissa straightened up immediately. “Don’t stop on my account, miss,” the pap told her. “Just nice to see you with someone other than Bittle. Hey, how’s he doing, anyways? Can you tell him that the cherry tart recipe he gave me was a hit at my wife’s baby shower? Everyone loved it.”

“Sure,” Larissa blurted, moving away from Shitty quickly. “I’ll pass the message along.”

“Nice to meet you,” Shitty cut in. “You got Eric’s tart recipe? Man, you shoulda asked for the key lime pie one. That’s a real crowd pleaser.”

The pap shrugged. “Eh, my wife’s not too big on key lime pie.”

“Your loss.”

“So, you got a name?” the pap asked, wiping the lens of his camera. “I don’t want to be the bozo that couldn’t get the name of Larissa’s boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend, Brian,” Larissa said a little too harshly. “He’s Eric’s friend from school. And no, you don’t get his name.”

Brian raised his hands in mock surrender. “I get it, I get it. You don’t want the world to know just yet.” He clicked a few buttons on his camera and smiled at Larissa. “Picture erased, but you better promise me that you’ll gimme a call before you come out anywhere else.”

As soon as he walked off, Shitty held up a bright pink sweater with red elbow patches shaped like hearts. “I think we need this one.”

“No.”

“Maybe for a Valentine’s Day painting,” he mused, hanging it back up and starting to riffle through the rack again. “I’ll pose like cupid.”

Larissa rolled her eyes before pulling out a white dress from the woman’s rack. It would have been funny, it would have made a statement, and it would have, well, been beautiful. Shitty had a nice figure. This dress was something that stick-thin blonde models wore and everyone called it “a look”. It was thin, somewhat flowy with an off-the-shoulder sleeve and and lacey over-skirt. It would look incredible with the teal and salmon paint she bought the day before.

“Dude!”

Larissa was ready to have Shitty flip out in her face, disgusted by the idea of wearing a dress, but he just snatched it from her hands and held it up. “Oh my God, this isn’t my size. Fuck, Larissa, we need an extra large.”

“You’re okay with wearing a dress?”

“Can you curl my hair?” he asked excitedly. “Oh, kind of like a fancy updo? Wait--we need glitter.” He shoved the dress back on the rack and searched for one in the right size. “A-ha! Good ol’ X-L.”

Larissa grinned. “I have an even better idea.”

///

When they returned to the apartment, Eric was there with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, rolling out a pie crust. He turned his head at the sound of Larissa and Shitty returning. “Well, there you are! I’m almost done with the strawberry pie, but there’s strawberry pretzel salad and I have strawberries soaking for strawberry shortcake!”

“I love strawberry!” Shitty cheered, setting his bags down on the little love seat. “Well, almost as much as I love the dress Rizzy-Roo bought me. She also had to buy a curling iron for my hair.”

Larissa rolled her eyes. “Great, strawberry. I can’t wait to break out in hives.”

Eric fake-gasped as he took of his oven mitts. “Oh! I completely forgot! You’re allergic--oh, Larissa, I’m so sorry. Well, I guess I’ll just have to feed your share of desserts to James.”

Shitty jumped up to sit on the counter, thoughtlessly pulling his hair up into a bun. He was eyeing up the tart that sat on the cooling rack, but he knew he had to wait. The last time he touched a dessert before Eric served it, he went without baked goods for two weeks. “Who’s James? Do you mean Jack?”

“James is our son,” Eric told him. “Larissa and I are parents.”

Shitty had nothing to say. First of all, he knew his beloved friend was gay, so unless he was mistaken about Larissa’s identity--oh, fuck, he was assuming again. He felt like an imbecile. But wait...wouldn’t Eric tell him if he was really a dad? And where was the baby? Why would he name his son James?

“Stop thinking too hard, you might set the smoke detectors off,” Larissa chirped, jumping up to sit beside him. “James is a shark. I upset Eric so I adopted him a shark and named it Eric James Bittle, so that way we could call the shark James to differentiate. The certificate is hanging up right by the bathroom.”

What a fucking relief. Shitty couldn’t say anything back, because Eric handed him a huge plate filled with different kinds of desserts along with a fork. There was no talking to be done when he could be eating. As he took a bite of the strawberry pretzel salad, he remembered he only had this little piece of heaven until tomorrow.

Fuck.


End file.
